He Doesn’t Care_A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance

by Naomi West

  Her arms wrapped around Owen, the town passed Carey in a wild blur. At first, she was terrified at the speed of the bike, at the feeling of the wind in her face. But before too long her fear turned to a thrill, and feeling safe with Owen at the helm, she allowed herself to enjoy the ride.

  Eventually, the city gave way to rolling hills, and the two of them soon took a turn down a narrow, forested path. The green of the leaves and the brown of the thick tree trunks whooshed by them, and Carey wondered where they were heading off to. Soon, Owen took them down one more narrow road, this one terminating at a magnificent waterfall.

  Owen killed the engine, the sound of rushing water replacing the roar of the engine.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Carey, stepping off the bike and taking in the scene, the smell of Owen still lingering in her senses.

  “Not sure what this place is called,” said Owen. “Ought to find out some time.”

  He reached into his storage compartment and pulled out a small cooler, big enough for a pair of beers. Cracking them open, he handed one to Carey. She normally wasn’t much of a drinker, but something about riding on that bike, her arms wrapped around Owen, made a cold beer sound absolutely delicious.

  “I like to come out here every now and then,” said Owen. “Makes me remember that this place isn’t all some rundown city that’s seen better days.”

  Carey took a sip of her beer, letting the suds linger on her palate. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Owen drank, his stubble-dusted Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each gulp. She had to force herself to look away, to not stare at Owen. But he was about the most good-looking man she’d ever seen in her life, so not ogling him like a horny teenager was something she had to make sure not to do.

  “So, college girl, huh?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and squatting down on a nearby stone.

  “Yep,” she said. “MFA at Holbrook.”

  His eyebrows raised.

  “Holbrook?” he said, followed by an impressed whistle. “Sounds like I wasn’t too far off the mark when I guessed you were a little rich girl.

  “Hey,” said Carey. “I could be like Lily, you know, going to school with loans and scholarships.”

  He let out a loud bark of a laugh.

  “Not a chance,” he said. “You’ve got ‘rich girl’ written all over you.”

  “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” asked Carey, putting her hands on her shoulders.

  “Do I really need to get into it again?” he asked with a smirk.

  Carey harrumphed before taking another sip of her beer. It was strange—she knew that his teasing should’ve pissed her off, but strangely, it only made her more into him. She had this strange urge, like she wanted to pick a fight with him and screw him all at the same time. Carey watched as he turned his eyes back to the waterfall, and she got in another quick look at his ropy, bulging muscles. Never in a million years did she ever think she’d be so into a rough biker like him, but here she was.

  “Anyway,” said Owen. “Keep this place in mind. You ever start to feel like Holyoke is sucking the life out of you, just remember that actual nature is a quick drive away.”

  With that, he got up, killed his beer, and headed back to the bike. Carey drained the last half of her drink and scrambled after him. Soon, her arms were back around Owen, her senses were once again overwhelmed with his intoxicating scent, and they were off.

  As they rode, Carey began to feel a tightness down in her body, a feeling exacerbated by the vibration of the engine. She tried to put it out of her mind, but the longer they drove, the more the feeling increased in intensity. Eventually, she had to admit that she was getting turned on. So much, in fact, that she could barely keep her head straight.

  They drove back to Holyoke, returning to one of the rougher parts of town. Owen pulled the bike into a parking place on the side of the road, just under a street sign.

  “See that?” he said, pointing up. “This is the border of the Fourstroke Fiends’ territory. Runs here all the way to Twentieth on the other side of town. You stay within these streets and you can tell anyone who gives you shit that you know Owen Flynn. If they know what’s good for ’em, they’ll back the fuck off.”

  “And if not?” asked Carey, secretly hoping for some vicarious thrills by hearing just what Owen would do to anyone who crossed him.

  “You don’t want to know,” he said. “My boys and I fought long and hard for each one of these blocks. Anyone who doesn’t give us the respect that we deserve learns the hard way.”

  “Like … those guys who harassed me and Lily yesterday?”

  He snorted, shaking his head with contempt. “Those assholes got a pass on account of being stupid as fuck. They were too drunk to know what the hell they were doing; probably had too wild of a night out. They cross me one more time though. Or mess with you again …”

  He trailed off, leaving what their fates might be to Carey’s imagination. And just as with everything else, she felt a thrill shoot up her spine. Knowing that a man like Owen had taken her under his protection made her feel good on some kind of a deep, primal level.

  “What now?” asked Carey. “More waterfalls?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Something else I want to show you. Something in the neighborhood.”

  He cocked his head to the side, indicating for her to follow him. The two of them proceeded along the sidewalk, and Carey took in the sight of the rows of dilapidated buildings that they passed.

  “This place didn’t always look like this, you know,” he said. “Used to be a nice neighborhood, if you can believe that.”

  “What happened?” asked Carey.

  “Who knows,” he said. “Same shit that happened to dozens, hundreds of other cities in the country. Jobs went out, drugs came in, and before you knew it, the place was a shithole.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Carey.

  “Damn right, it is. And the cops have all but given up on places like this. So, it’s up to guys like me and the rest of my boys to provide some kind of order.”

  They continued on, Carey taking in the scenes of urban blight all around her. After a time, they arrived at a stone townhome complete with a grand staircase that led up to a large set of wooden doors. Carey noted that this home had likely been a proud and beautiful place at one time.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Follow me,” he said, bounding up the stairs.

  “What?” she asked. “We’re just going to break into someone’s house?”

  “No one’s lived here for forty years,” he said, looking over his shoulder as he fiddled with the lock. “Well, not legally, that is.”

  Carey didn’t like the sound of that one bit. She followed Owen anyway, her stomach growing tenser by the moment. Finally, as she approached Owen’s side, he managed to open the door. A stale scent of dust blew out into their faces, and Carey held her hand over her eyes as it passed.

  “Come on in,” said Owen, stepping into the house.

  “This place better not be haunted or anything,” said Carey as they stepped in.

  “What, afraid of a few ghosts? Trust me, I’d take them over the lowlifes I’ve seen around this city.”

  The entryway to the house was a grand hall dominated by a spiral staircase. A smashed chandelier was in the center of the floor, and the old, patterned wallpaper had long begun to peel from the walls. Beams of light shot through the room’s windows, revealing air thick with dust.

  “So, what’s so special about this place?”

  “Patience, kid,” said Owen. “Come with me.”

  He led her through the wreck of the entrance hall, both of them arriving in a large living room.

  Carey gasped when she saw what it held.

  All along the walls were wild designs, painted with expert skill and precision. She looked around at the designs, which she realized could only be called art, and took them in one by one. There were strange, abstract designs, th
ere were designs that resembled the modern art that she studied at school, and there were even designs that reminded her of the Renaissance-era art that she loved so dearly.

  “What … what is all of this?”

  “Place used to be a flophouse for smack-addicts,” said Owen, looking around the room. “Apparently, some of them were pretty talented artists.”

  “Damn. I’ll say,” said Carey, her eyes locked onto the art. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Beautiful and tragic,” said Owen. “I like to come here every now and then. I always get to thinking about how much talent went to waste here, people who could’ve done something great with what God gave them, but instead wasted it while they shot shit into their arms.”

  Carey looked at Owen with curious eyes. She never would’ve expected such sentiments from such a rough-looking man as him, let alone an appreciation for art. She found her attraction to him growing from simply an overwhelming physical one to one that was deeper. She knew now that beneath that tough exterior there was something more, something richer.

  “Come on,” he said. “Last piece I gotta show you.”

  Owen led her out of the living room and to the grand spiral staircase in the center of the main entrance hall. The stairs creaked as they ascended them, and Carey found herself wondering if they just might collapse at any moment.

  “Not the safest house to be in,” said Carey, letting her fear slip out just a bit.

  “They built these places to last,” said Owen. “We should be fine.”

  As if to make her feel a little better, Owen extended the crook of his arm and let Carey take it. She happily wrapped her arm around his, feeling better instantly at his touch. She couldn’t get over just how safe and protected she felt at his side. Against her better wishes, she found herself stranded in a sea of attraction for this man at her side, hopelessly adrift.

  After making their way through another hallway, they came to the master bedroom. The large, spacious room was appointed with turn-of-the-century antique furniture, which was all covered in a thin layer of dust. A massive, four-point bed dominated the room, and the window looked out onto a large backyard overgrown with weeds.

  “Check it out,” said Owen, standing in front of the bed and looking at the wall across from it.

  Carey moved to his side, gasping at what she saw. It was a massive replica of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus drawn on the wall, the magnificent painting recreated in painstaking detail. Carey rushed up to the art, looking it over with eager eyes. She saw instantly that the piece was technically flawless, and each brushstroke seemed to have been done with the skill of a master.

  “This is my favorite piece,” she said. “I’ve been obsessed with it since I was a little girl. And this … it’s perfect. I can’t believe what I’m looking at.”

  “Never been that much of an art buff,” said Owen, “but even I can appreciate something like this.”

  “Whoever made this … God …”

  “No clue,” said Owen. “Just hope that whoever did got their life together before the smack took them.”

  Carey was enraptured by the painting. She wanted to touch it, to make sure it was real, but she didn’t want to risk smearing or ruining it.

  “Beauty in a place like this,” said Carey, her voice one of awe.

  “Exactly what I think,” said Owen. “It’s why I come here. It’s why I wanted to bring you here—to show you that beauty like this can even exist in a place where we’re standing.”

  Carey turned to Owen, seeing that he was standing and carrying himself with the same tough posture, as though he were expressing these thoughts like they were just simple ideas that had come to his mind. He appeared to her to be the perfect blend of raw machismo and sensitivity; he was like no one who she’d ever met before.

  As though under a control not her own, she stepped closer to Owen, close enough that she was wrapped instantly in that intoxicating smell that lingered on his body, the one that she couldn’t get enough of as they rode on his bike, her arms wrapped around him. She wanted him to return to favor, to embrace her in those strong, thick arms of his, to bring her closer, so very close, to him.

  Owen looked down at her, his ice-blue eyes locked onto hers. The tension built by the moment, and part of her wanted to say something silly, something stupid, just to break it. But the better part of her knew to keep her mouth shut, and to let the emotions and urges that she felt helpless against carrying her where they would.

  Then, before another thought could form in her mind, a sly, sexy smirk formed on Owen’s lips. With lightning-quick speed, his hands clasped onto her waist and he pulled her close, a surprised gasp escaping from Carey’s mouth. He looked at her with the hunger of an animal sizing up his next meal. And Carey was happy to be just that.

  Carey’s legs went weak as soon as he moved in and put his lips onto hers. Her heart pounded, and her skin tingled with something like electricity. He kissed her hard; it was a kiss of pure eroticism, of barely constrained lust, and Carey fell into it instantly. Owen’s hands moved over her body through her clothes, and she returned the favor by slipping her hands under his shirt and running her fingertips along the hard lines of his muscles. She felt herself get wetter and wetter as she kissed him and caressed his muscles, and all she could think about was how she wanted to have him take her right then and there.

  Their kiss reached a fevered intensity, and soon their hands went to work, pulling off clothes here and there until they were both shirtless. Opening her eyes just a bit, Carey gazed down in awe at his incredible physique, noting the tapestry of tattoos that covered his arms, shoulders, and pecs. She’d never thought she’d be so turned on by ink in the way she was at that moment.

  But here I am, she thought, about to get taken by a biker.

  And “taking” her was just what Owen had in mind. The flashes of sensitivity were long-gone, replaced by a wild, primal lust as Owen kissed and touched her. He reached around Carey’s chest, undoing her bra and tossing it to the side, her ample breasts tumbling out as he did. Carey felt more and more turned on by the moment, barely able to contain herself. Reaching down, she felt his cock through the rough denim of his jeans, and she wanted nothing more than to see just what he had down there. The thought was almost too much to bear.

  Still feeling out of control of her own body, Carey dropped to her knees, her face directly in front of the massive bulge in Owen’s jeans. Her hands shot up and undid his black leather belt, the buckle jangling as she pulled it open. With a few more quick motions, his fly was down and his jeans were below his waist, the huge tenting of his cock through his black boxer-briefs now merely inches from Carey’s face. She felt her tongue drag slowly along her lips, as if she were famished and ready for the meal of her life.

  Slipping her thumbs under his waistband, she pulled his underwear down, first exposing his sculpted hipbones, then the base of his cock, then finally, with one last tug, she yanked the underwear down. She gasped at what she saw. His prick was enormous, to put it mildly. It was easily the largest cock that she’d ever seen in person, and her first thought when she laid eyes on it was just how she was going to fit that entire thing in her mouth,

  “Holy shit,” she muttered, a chuckle sounding out from Owen above as she did.

  Taking his titanic unit by the base, Carey slowly began to stroke it up and down, the cock hardening to full size as she did. Carey opened her mouth slightly, taking his head into her mouth and holding it there for a moment, letting the taste and smell of Owen linger in her senses and letting him enjoy the warm wetness of her mouth.

  Owen let out a sexy little grunt as Carey formed a tight seal around his cock with her lips. She still had no idea how much of this thing she was going to be able to take into her mouth, but she was more than willing to experiment.

  Still stroking the length of his cock, Carey took more and more of him into her mouth. She moved past the ridge of his head, lashing the sensitive skin there with her tongue as she
moved, Owen’s body shivering with pleasure in response. She moved down, down, easing her throat to take more of him into her. Owen groaned as he slipped his hand into the back of her hair, guiding her down his length. Soon, Carey had nearly all of him in her mouth, and she couldn’t help but let the traces of a proud little smile form on her lips, as occupied as they were.

  Carey bobbed up and down on his cock, savoring the taste and relishing the feeling of him filling her mouth in such a way. Owen’s grunts encouraged her on, and even she began to impress herself with just how good of a job of she was doing with all the “material” she had to work with.

  Eventually, Owen guided her back up to her feet, his cock leaving her mouth with a wet “pop.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and waited eagerly for what he had in mind next. Owen went to work on the remainder of her clothing, undoing her button and zipper and yanking her jeans and panties off with a single, fluid motion. Now completely nude, Carey felt herself shiver with anticipation.